Harry Potter and the Quest for the Holy Tail
by muishiki
Summary: Harry Potter won the war, but the cost was to high - he's still a virgin! With the entirety of the Wizarding population in England decimated by the war, how's a young hero gonna get some action? The simple solution: go back in time! Sorry, no tag backs!
1. Chapter 1

Okay, so I don't know why this came to me, but it seems that Harry goes back in time to fix all the problems from the war (more like a friendly game of tag football) with Moldywart

So this is my crack… fic at it. Be prepared. I can't promise it will be good, but if I don't get this down on paper it will haunt me the rest of my days.

--

Harry flung the last shovelful of earth out of the pit and threw the shovel up after. Unfortunately, he missed the lip of the grave, on account of him being six feet deep, and the offending implement bounced back, spinning wildly as it descended.

Harry's Quiddich reflexes kicked in, and he grabbed the handle of the shovel before it could land on him. Unfortunately, he forgot to account for momentum and the flat blade of the shovel slammed into his nose, breaking his glasses, not to mention the fragile cartilage and bone that formed his now flattened proboscis.

Okay, so maybe it didn't hurt as bad as one of Voldemort's cruciatus curses. He kept trying to tell himself that as he rolled around at the bottom of the grave, trying to stem the blood flowing from his abused nasal, concha, ethmoid, and maxilla bones.

"FUD DAT HURBS!" Groping around blindly, he managed to find his wand. After repeated failed attempts, he finally managed to focus enough to cast a healing charm on his face, repairing the damage.

He took a deep breath as the pain eased. What was that whistling noise? Damn it! What was causing that sound? It sounded like a broken organ grinder, and it was coming from… well shit.

He forgot to set his bones in place before repairing the damage. He looked balefully at the shovel. With a sigh, he picked it up and tossed it back up to the edge of the pit. It missed, of course, but he planned it this time. It was with a great deal of trepidation that he grabbed the handle of the falling shovel and braced for impact.

Smash.

"GOB DAMB BIT!! DAT HURBS!!" Okay, yeah, it hurt worse than the cruciatus curse. And it wasn't even dark, so the Ministry would never know.

With trembling finger, Harry set to work setting the bones properly this time before repairing the damage. He vomited after setting the first bone. Oh Jesus, that hurt. He was a little better when he set the second bone, and down right cheerful with the final bone.

Who was he kidding? He was blubbering like a little baby.

Note to self. Next time he had to fight somebody, Harry was using a shovel.

He groped around for the remains of his glasses and finally found them. A quick "reparo!" knitted them back together, and he started the process of getting out of the grave. He (very carefully) tossed the shovel high to clear the lip of the grave, and then jumped up to grab the edge. Grunting and straining, he managed to pull himself up and rolled over the edge, swinging first one leg up, then the other.

He stood and brushed the dirt off his clothing and bent over to reach for the shovel handle. The moment he touched it, the edge of the grave he was standing on collapsed. He tried to maintain his balance, but flinging his arms back only managed to tilt him backwards until he fell, bouncing off one wall of earth to crash with a sickening thud at the bottom of the grave.

"Ow." He looked up just in time to see the shovel descending once again.

"Oh Fu...!!"

His one thought through the blinding pain was: Yeap. Definitely using a shovel next time.

--

He managed to finally repair his once again shattered face, shrink the shovel (he put that in his pocket just to be safe, thank you very much) and finally climb out of the grave after only a couple more tries. He rolled to his knees and looked around, dreading what he had to do next.

Lots of bodies, wrapped in sheets, were laid in a neat row next to the grave. He ran down the mental list, chastising himself for each name. Okay, there was Dumbledore, then McGonagall, Flitwick, Grubb… Snape, too, but there wasn't really enough left of him to bury. He'd fed the remains to Hagrid's hound Fang before the dog had died in some senseless act of violence perpetrated by Voldemort.

The list continued. Actually, Harry lost count, because there were too many bit characters for him to keep track of. But at the very least, he had one grave dug, and only 368 bodies left to bury from the attack on Hogwarts.

He would have asked for a little help from the Ministry except that most of the members were caught in the fire that burned that institution to the ground. With a heavy heart and limbs he dragged the first body to the grave and dumped it in (bodies were heavy, and he was tired from digging the grave and breaking his face. Three times.) He felt bad. Perhaps this called for some sort of solemn ceremony. The sheet covering the face had peeled back a bit, revealing the face of the corpse in a mangled heap at the bottom of the grave. Oh. It was just Draco. Huh. He must have started with the Death Eater pile. Whistling, he brushed his hands off and went to fetch the next stiff.

--

In retrospect, maybe he should have dug more than one grave. It could more accurately be described as a grave mound, or perhaps a barrow. At any rate, he barely had enough soil to cover the hill the bodies created.

He stepped back to evaluate his handy work. Pulling out the shovel, he walked over to the mound and took a big swing at the arm that was sticking out of the mound. With a dull "crack," the offending limb was smashed into the earthen wall. Harry scoped up a shovelful of dirt and filled in the divot.

Yeap. All done.

He looked at the shovel. Damn useful, these things.

--

Later, while sitting in the remains of the Headmaster's Office and chatting with Dumbledore's portrait, the two were trying to figure where it all went wrong.

"Look on the bright side, Harry," the portrait said. "Now that Voldemort is finally vanquished, and you can get on with your life."

"With who? There's nobody left alive in the whole of England!" Harry scrubbed his hands through his hair, taking care to avoid his still tender nasal area. "I'd have to immigrate to find anybody, and that's impossible now that there's no government willing to take me!"

Dumbledore's portrait frowned. "It can't be that bad, Harry."

The boy-who-lived vehemently disagreed. "It is! Christ. You know what makes it worse? I'm still a virgin."

Dumbledore's eyebrows shot up. "Truly?"

Harry nodded his head morosely. "Ginny didn't do the…" The portrait made some rather rude hand gestures that were filtered out incase any young readers might happen upon this story.

"Nope." Harry sighed in disgust. "We tried, but she took a killing curse for me right as I was shimmying out of my pants."

"Hermione?" Asked Dumbledore.

"With Ron."

"Well," asked the painting, "What about Luna?"

"We were going to, but she tied me up and got distracted. A Death Eater got her soon afterwards." He shuddered. "I was lucky that time. I was tied down for three days because Luna forgot to tell anyone where we were. If Molly hadn't found me with that clock of hers, I'd have been done for."

"What about Molly, then?"

"Look! I'm a virgin, okay?"

The portrait looked perturbed. Silence fell as Harry pouted and the head master pondered. Finally, the portrait broke the silence.

"Harry, there may be something we can do to right this terrible injustice. I can not let this stand."

"What?"

"The cost of defeating Voldemort has been too great."

"You mean the death of every character in the Potterverse?"

"No, your virginity. I never would have asked you to do what you did if I had known this would be the outcome. It is too high a cost for any soul to bear."

Harry sat up a little straighter at the prospect of being able to correct these wrongs. Hope blossomed. "What do we need to do?"

"What" asked Dumbledore, "do you remember about time-turners?"

--

"Now remember, Harry. This is a very inexact science. But you have to be absolutely perfect in your calculations, or this could go horribly, horribly wrong."

Harry grumbled under his breath about bossy old portraits, but rechecked his calculations once again. "So, where will this send me back to?"

The portrait shrugged. "I'm unsure. I've tried to anchor it to a significant moment in your young life, so that you'll have lots of time to correct what when drastically wrong here."

"The attack on Hogwarts, right?"

"No, your virginity. I'm sure the rest of it will work out fine. After all, you are the prophesied vanquisher of the Dark Lord. But the prophesy never stated you had to be a virgin to accomplish it."

Harry sat back on his haunches. "Well, what if the 'power that he knows not' is virginity?"

The portrait paled. "Harry, don't say such things!"

"Well, what if it is?"

"Then," the portrait said, "May God have mercy on us all. Such a future is too horrible to contemplate."

Harry nodded and checked the calculations one final time, then showed them to Dumbledore for approval. He reviewed them with a critical eye, and once satisfied, permitted Harry to begin the process of drawing the circles necessary for the magic.

It took a long time. By the time Harry finished, his hands were cramping from holding the brush. Not to mention, with his poor eyesight, he was forced to draw the whole circle from a kneeling position to ensure complete accuracy. So, in addition to a cramped hand, his knees were killing him and his back rather stiff as well.

He rehearsed the incantation many times and practiced the wand movements he needed. He felt ready. With Dumbledore's blessing, he marched into the circle, taking great care not to step on any lines, and began the incantation.

Unfortunately, it started to rain. Neither of them had foreseen the weather, and so they'd used a combination of water soluble liquids and chalk to complete the circle. Dumbledore watch with increasing nervousness as the lines of the circle, once so distinct, began to blur as the rain fell.

So absorbed in the spell he didn't hear Dumbledore's shouts to stop until after he completed the spell. He didn't have any time to react; it felt like his spine was ripped out of his back as he was pulled backwards.

Blackness quickly followed.

--

Harry came to right as his wand snapped forward. He heard, "Avada Kadavera!" and a green light shot forward to strike the infant at his feet.

Wait a second!

When the light was reflected back, Harry had just enough time to reflect that the spell had gone, horribly, horribly wrong before his soul was ripped from the body it had just inhabited.

Voldemort's wraith looked at Harry's wraith, and both looked down at the crumpled body that was sprawled at their… well, not feet, but mist trail.

Voldemort pointed down at his body and the crying infant. "Was that supposed to happen?"

Harry nodded.

Voldemort pointed at the older, less substantial Harry floating next to him. "Then what are you doing here?"

"I think there must have been a mistake made somewhere."

"Oh." The two spirits, for lack of anything else to do, just sort of hung there, calmly regarding each other. Unfortunately, fate had other plans. Harry wasn't sure what happened, but when he looked down next, he noticed that his… mist trail was slowly entwining Voldemort's. Nervously, he giggled.

"What's so funny?" Demanded the dark lord.

"Don't look now, but I think we're going to be experiencing some… interesting sensations soon."

"What do you…?" Voldemort's spirit looked down. Eyes wide, he looked up at Harry's spirit just in time to voice the sentiment that Harry was feeling. "This is not good."

Harry didn't have time for much more than a nod before a giant sucking sound pulled both spirits together, merging the two. This was probably what Dumbledore was referring to when he mentioned things could go horribly, horribly wrong.

There was absolutely no way in hell Harry was ever gonna get laid now.

--

Harry Potter/Voldemort drifted along, for lack of a better word, engaged in the bitterest of struggles.

"Look. We can't use Voldemort as a name, because I'm Harry Potter!"

"Well we can't bloody well go by Harry Potter, now can we? This is mortifying! How am I ever going to look a Death Eater in the face again?" Voldemort's half let out a rather terrifying, if a bit girly, laugh. "Hahaha! I am Harry Potter, Dark Lord! Bow to me."

"You're right. It does sound a bit daft. Well, how about we come up with a new name? You know, like you did with I am Tom Riddle?"

"I've got a better idea. How about we separate?"

Harry shook his head, and by extension Voldemort's head. This was going to get confusing. "I don't think it will work like that. I'm pretty sure I'm stuck with you."

Voldemort grumbled.

"Oh, how about Voldarry Pottmort?"

"NO!"

"What about Harvold Morter?"

"Absolutely not!"

"Rom Jermarry?"

"Hmm… Promisin... GAHH. NO! No, no no no no!"

"V-diddy? J-lo? Lindsey Lohan? Hannah Montana?"

Voldemort shuddered. "Truly terrifying names, all, but unfortunately claimbed by other dark souls. But we are making progress."

And so it continued. So fixed on hashing out this essential plot point, they neglected to pay attention to where they were drifting.

--

Okay, okay. I'm sorry. I don't know what came over me, but I was grinning like an idiot the entire time I wrote this. That means something is going right. Anyway, this is off to a good start. :)

Help me name the Fusion between Harry James Potter and Tom Marvolo Riddle. You can use any of the letters that appear in the statement, "I am Harry James Potter and Tom Marvolo Riddle." It should capture the essence of the two opposing natures, with an eye on the prize - getting Harry some holy tail.

Questions, comments, criticism welcome. Oh, and Sap bored(dot)com (nice fictional email, by the way) - that was a very cute review. Thanks.

Jerk.


	2. Chapter 2

"Oh, Oh! I've got it!"

With a long suffering sigh, Voldemort used his free hand to scratch his side of the nose. Well, he actually didn't have a hand. It was more like a tendril, but still it felt good to scratch something. He would have preferred to scratch out his eyeballs, but being that he didn't have any, he had to make due. He/they were more of an amorphous blob with two distinct personalities, but he could feel them slowly blending together. He could clearly remember things that had happened to the Harry Potter that was attached to him. He was sure the true was same on the other side. "Yes?"

"How about, 'Teapot Jar Rhymers?'"

Voldemort sighed. "Honestly, Harry. Teapot Jar Rhymers?"

"Well, what's wrong with it?" He sounded quite put out.

"It doesn't exactly strike fear into one's heart, now does it?"

"Well I don't see you helping here any, Mr. I'm a dark lord but got killed by a baby because I tried to split my soul too many times."

"That was a low blow."

"True statement, though."

"Yes, well, Mr. I vanquished the dark lord but I couldn't even get laid, two can play dirty."

If anyone had bothered to watch what followed, it would have looked much like a tentacle monster attempting to strangle a cloud. Both sides recognized that the struggle was futile, but for want of anything else to do, they continued.

Voldemort's side disengaged first. "What about Major Pyjama Roper?" he asked.

Harry burst out laughing. "I've got it, I've got it! Major Therapy!"

Voldemort tried to contain himself, but he ended up laughing too. It was a while before they calmed down.

"Hey Tom, have you noticed?"

"What's that?"

Harry's aspect projected an astral frown. "I think we're assimilating. By the end of this, I don't think there will be a me or a you. I think there will just be a merged soul. Because you're dark and I'm light, we'll probably end up some shade of grey."

"I did notice. Do you think we'll still end up bent on world domination?"

Harry shrugged, as best as a wraith can. "Don't know. But I'm pretty sure we'll have an unhealthy fascination with sex, on account of my olive oil status."

"Extra virgin?"

"Yeap. Not even the first cold pressing."

"What about Trophy Hero?"

Harry thought a second. "I think that's one too many 'h's.'"

"Damn. Well. I kind of like Pyjamas the Terror."

"Not bad, not bad," agreed Harry. "What about A Maharaja Deeded I Trimly Vomit?"

"Hmm." Voldemort paused. "Harry?"

"What?"

"I think I'm going to float over here for a while, mkay?"

"Oh. Cool." He paused. "What about Voldewhore?"

--

Nearly a decade passed. By this time, it was not longer an me vs. him mentality, but more of an us as the personalities blended a bit. They maintained distinct aspects, but they resembled duct tape, or the force, depending on how geeky you were feeling. There was a light side and a dark side, bound all together.

In short, the wraith was schizophrenic.

There was never a suitable anagram, but one rather memorable argument that led to the name the spirit currently referred to itself as.

Harry D. Thomas. Or just Harry Tom for short.

You might ask, "what does the "D." stand for in Harry D. Thomas?

Well, you see, Harry's glad you asked….

--

"What about Tom Harry?" asked the remaining aspect of Voldemort.

"Harry Tom!" Replied back Harry's.

"Tom first! It makes it sound less juvenile. Tom…"

Harry interrupted. "Dick and Harry! Just like everyone else. I refuse."

Voldemort paused. Harry paused with him. Together they said, "Harry Dick Thomas!"

Now, a Harry Dick Thomas is quite a mouthful. Plus, they tended to get into arguments as to whether it should be Thomas Dick Harry, which sounded a bit… off, or Thomas Harry Dick.

It took a while, but eventually the settled on the word order. They gave each other a metaphorical high five, seeing that they were still a spirit and all. At that point, the spirit, formally known as Harry Potter and Tom Riddle, became Harry D. Thomas, or HDT.

Sometimes, they referred to themselves as Hard Tom, or Tom Hard, but how they came to call themselves that is another story that we aren't quite ready to explore yet. You see, there was this time when Harry D. Thomas managed to actually find a willing female and CENSORED then he CENSORED while she CENSORED CENSORED CENSORED.

Err, anyway…

--

But back to the more pressing matters at hand. Harry D. Thomas had been floating around now for close to a decade, and he was ready to get a corporal body back. See, one pressing need still remained.

He wanted to get laid. Voldemort had lost that desire long ago in the process of splitting his soul. Plus, he had forgotten to specify in the rebirth procedure that the package should be included in the package. It hadn't bothered him because his sex drive was out chilling in some whorecrux, er, Horcrux somewhere. Funnily enough, his sex drive was put in the most… appropriate receptacle –Helga Hufflepuff's cup.

Of course, he hadn't cared, because his rationality had been put into the diary. His intelligence had been placed into the Ravenclaw's diadem, and his emotions locked into Salazar's locket, and appetite into Nagini, and his ability to plan into Marvolo's ring.

Basically, everything that made him human had been sealed away somewhere.

No fucking wonder the darkest wizard in fifty years couldn't kill an eleven year old boy. He was basically automated spell caster set to cruciatus. He had the emotional intelligence of an infant, the foresight of a mole, and patience of a toddler, and the emotional depth of a nudibranch.

In retrospect, making the horcruxes had been a bad idea, but he wasn't able to realize why until he merged with Harry.

Voldemort agreed that destroying the horcruxes would probably be for the best, but he only agreed to it if there sought some other form of immortality. Harry agreed to help. There were plenty of ways of achieving immortality. Being a rock star was one. Or, stealing the philosopher's stone was another. Seeing how well that went last time, HDT promised to do a much better job of it this time.

Because, in the grand scheme of things, you needed a body to conquer the world. Not to mention to get laid. While a wraith might be intimidating, it was really hard to grab a pair of C-cups with mist. So, conquer the world, gain immortality, and get laid. They didn't necessarily have to happen in that order, but HDT hadn't been able to agree on which order it should happen. Did he want to find a nice girl to ravage before ruling the world, or rule the world first and have his pick of nice girls?

Choices, choices.

And since you needed physical parts to do the physical deed, he had to find a physical body. He knew Quirrell was some where down in Romania, but not exactly where. If he was willing to let a malevolent spirit posses him last time, maybe he'd let a slightly pissed off and sexually frustrated spirit hitch along this time?

It was worth finding out.

--

Deep in the Black forest, Harry D. Thomas smelled garlic. Lots of garlic. He was on to something! He followed the scent as best he could (considering he didn't have a nose), and tracked it down to the source.

It seemed to be coming from a rather rundown looking building in the middle of small town, quite isolated from anything else. Harry tracked the scent as best he was able, poking his head through from outside the building when it seemed to be closest.

He was right. It was stir fry. Mmm…

Looked really good, too. Nicely colored with three different types of spicy peppers, nice tender strips of beef, some water chestnuts, lots of whole garlic cloves sautéed in a light peanut oil topped with a dark, sweet and tangy hoisin sauce… Harry D. Thomas sighed. Sometimes it wasn't fair that he was a ghost.

With a respectful nod to the Chinese immigrant working the wok, Harry drifted off, looking for Quirrell. The poor cook dropped the wok with yell when he saw the ghost above his wok, spraying hot cooking oil and medium rare beef-tips across the kitchen.

Harry D. Thomas watched with equal parts chagrin and delight as the small Chinese restaurant caught fire. Patrons flooded out the front door, screaming and stampeding as they tried to escape the firetrap. By the time the fire department arrived, there was naught left but a husk of the kitchen.

--

Catching Quirinus Quirrell quickly proved to be a bit squirrelly, nay, even cantankerous, considering that quinces weren't quite his compote. QQ proved to be quite competent. (Yes I was reaching. No, I refuse to delete it.)

When Harry finally tracked him down, deep in the woods of Romania, he actually did not reek of garlic. Rather, he seemed… normal. Like he remembered from his other side, the one that possessed him the first time. No turban, no weird disembodied voice sprouting from the back of his head, no stutter. He seemed quite relaxed and alert, not even the smallest bit prosaic; a far cry from the pitiful, pitiable, professor who professed to propagate protection from the practices penumbrous preached at Hogwarts preparatory.

Anyhoo…

Rather than swoop in and possess him without consent like last time, Harry calmly floated towards the professor and presented his case. One of the things that happened from the melding of Voldemort and Harry Potter was that they retained the best aspects of each soul and the worst aspects as well.

Well, "best" was a relative term. We'll settle for saying that Harry D. Thomas was ambitious, intelligent, charismatic, brave, lucky, and most of all, driven to accomplish two things: lose his virginity and stay alive. The problem was is that they could never tell which one would come to the fore at any given moment. Control was shared, and that control was tenuous at best.

"So, let me get this straight." Quirrell held up four fingers. "You want to posses me because, one-you lost your own corporal form, two – you can't go to the other side because your soul's anchored to the earth, three-you'll promise me lots of money, power, and fame, and four- you want to get acquainted with female genitalia." He paused. "Did I miss anything?"

"Nope." Replied Harry. "That's a pretty good summation of what I told you. So, what do you say? Do we have a deal?"

Quirrell snorted. "I think you're crazy, is what I think."

"So is that a yes?"

"No, that's a pretty firm no. Why would I want to let some wraith posses me?"

"I did ask nicely."

Quirrell nodded in acknowledgement. "Yes, you did. I do appreciate the thoughtfulness of that gesture. But I must respectfully decline."

"Well, I thank you for your time then, Quirrell. I'm just going to float over here, mkay?"

Harry allowed the gentle breeze to blow him towards the trees, away from the professor. When the professor turned his back, Voldemort struck.

--

In his mind, Harry and Tom were having quite the row. Tom was quick to point out that he didn't know that his face would stick out where ever he struck Quirrell's body. Harry was berating him for having shitty aim. Voldemort defended his actions with the justification that he couldn't recall from Harry's memories that Quirrell was quite so athletic, but maybe that was because he hadn't given him any warning.

Only having access to one set of memories was difficult, because a bulk of those memories consisted of Harry throwing temper tantrums, being tortured, or trying to find three minutes of privacy to indulge in the time honored tradition of virgins everywhere, self-gratification.

But as a consequence of asking nicely, he'd been forced to chase the professor. In the end, he was lucky to even tag him, even if the placement was rather unfortunate. Harry sighed as Quirrell pulled his pants up again. He wasn't sure having a corporal body was ever worth being an ass cheek.

Harry could see it now. People would look at Quirrell funny when he turned to talk to his ass. Harry had just thought the turban and the professor muttering to himself was weird. However, no amount of clothing could make talking to your ass look normal. Plus, how was he ever going to see? In polite society, one did not just drop their pants because the face residing on your ass cheek wanted to take a look around.

Tom was promising a slow and painful death, thinking vile thoughts that he knew Harry could hear. They had this strange telepathy. Well, split personality was a more apt description.

"Great", muttered Harry, "I'm never going to get any action like this."

"Did you say something, Master?"

"Yeah!" Harry spit out a mouthful of fabric. "You're switching to boxers and a tunic. I can't breathe in here." Harry felt Quirrell reach down and pick the wedge.

"I will as soon as feasible, Master."

Harry spat out yet another mouthful of fabric. Gross. It smelled like grundle. This was getting worse and worse. "Don't call me master!"

"You can call me Master."

"Which shall it be?"

Harry shouted out, "Call me Harry," while Voldemort shouted, "Call me Master!"

"Tom! You dick!"

Quirrell was confused. "What about some lumber jack undies? You know, the ones with the pull down panel for cold nights?"

Voldemort was busy gnashing his metaphorical teeth, promising massive amounts of pain.

Harry just happened to agree. If Voldemort kept grinding his teeth like that, they'd both suffer from temporomandibular joint disorder.

--

Ah yes, another chapter completed. Hell, this might not be funny to you, but I was laughing so hard while typing this that I had to take a break at one point. It's been a while since I've had this much fun writing.

Thanks to Howard Russell for finding the anagram Voldewhore. That's a classic. The rest I came up with.

Remember, nothing strikes fear into the heart of men like Teapot Jar Rhymers!

I make no promises as to when the next chapters come out. I might try switching back and forth between stuff. This crazy burst of productivity can't last forever. I was working on a chapter of Idiot's Guide, and was about 2400 words into it, when my fucking computer died and I lost the whole thing. I really, really, really hate windows Vista. I've had more problems since "upgrading" my computer with that piece of shit than anything I've ever used.


	3. Chapter 3

Not my characters.

I do own the item of power mentioned in this chapter, though.

* * *

"Put away your wands, children. You will not need them in this class."

Professor Quirrell's statement was met with puzzled glances all around. Immediately, a hand shot up in the front of the class room. Harry recognized the bushy haired witch that hand belonged to as a much younger version of his friend/arch enemy, depending on which personality was more dominant at the time.

"Yes, Ms...?"

"Granger, sir."

"Yes, Ms. Granger?"

"I don't understand, Professor. I thought this class was Defense Against the Dark Arts. How are we supposed to defend ourselves if we can't use magic?"

Professor Quirrell nodded. "Very good question." He turned to the class. "How do you defend yourself against dark magics, dark creatures, and others intent on doing you harm if you don't have magic?" He paced before the class, his cloak billowing dramatically as he stalked, the students enraptured by his speech. "Imagine. You are trapped, facing a vampire, and your wand has been knocked out of your hand? What do you do?"

A hand shot up. "Yes, Mr...?"

"Weasley, sir!"

"Well, go on then, Mr. Weasley. What do you do?"

"Garlic, sir!"

"Good. But, you haven't seen a Chinese restaurant or supermarket in ages. You reach into your pockets to fend off this evil beasty, and not a clove of garlic can be found. Maybe you find some parsley or some cilantro, but garlic, the essential ingredient for all Mediterranean cooking, is missing. Then what?"

Some one else in the back of the room raised their hand. "Sir?"

"Yes, Mr...?"

"Nottingworth."

"Go ahead, Mr. Notworthsnot."

Some people in the crowd snickered.

"No, Nottingworth, Sir."

Quirrell bowed his head. "My apologies. Do continue."

The student stood up, hesitantly. "Sir, I thought olive oil was the essential ingredient in Mediterranean cooking."

"Your house, good sir?"

"Ravenclaw, sir."

"5 points to your house for having the courage and knowledge to question authority. Good work." Harry made Professor Quirrell pace, as it allowed him to take in the room from his rather limited vantage point of the the professor's right butt cheek. He never imagined that one day he'd be teaching defense against the dark arts, and he was determined to prevent the mistakes that so limited his response the first time he fought Voldemort. Of course, now that he cohabited with his arch foe, there wasn't all that much he could do about it until he could get a body of his own. "But you still haven't answered my question about how you would fight a vampire without your wand."

There were some puzzled murmers, but nobody would raise their hand.

Harry sent the thought _Call on Draco, you twit, _to his host body.

Professor Quirrel nodded in agreement. "You, in the back. Yes, you, the blond kid. Your name?"

"Malfoy." The sneer was particularly evident in his voice, his disdain for this exercises apparent to all.

"How would you fight a vampire with no wand and garlic?"

Draco shrugged. "I wouldn't lose my wand."

"Would you come up here for a moment, Mr. Malfoy?"

"Why?"

Quirrell shrugged. "I will require assistance to demonstrate an effective way to fight a vampire without garlic or magic. You, of course, will be my assistant."

Reluctantly, Malfoy slinked out of his seat and towards the front of the class. While he might be willing to be rude, he also knew there was only so much pushing he could do without either getting detention or having points deducted from his class. He stood where he was instructed by the professor.

"First, what are some characteristics of vampires?"

A hand shot up. "Ms. Granger?"

"Sir!" She shot up from her desk. "Vampires tend to be pale, have a terrible fashion sense, avoid sunlight, and don't cast reflections in mirrors."

Quirrell smiled. "Very good." He turned to Malfoy and examined him up and down. "Yes, very good indeed. Pale? Check. Terrible fashion sense?" He picked at Malfoy's cloak. "Oh heavens yes." The class tittered, tickled that the teacher was picking on Malfoy for a change. "Avoids sunlight? Most likely." He turned back to the class. "So, we've found our vampire. Now, how do we defeat him before he can attack us? Any ideas?"

There was silence in the classroom.

"Well, then, I'll tell you. Children, always, always carry one of these. It doesn't matter how big or small, but this single implement will save your life one day." He reached into his cloak and pulled out a small shovel. It was an old thing, battered and weathered, with a gnarled wooden handle about the length of his forearm. He didn't know where it had come from, but ever since he'd been possesed he'd had it in his possession.

The class looked at him blankly. A child raised his hand. "Sir... how can a shovel defeat a vampire?"

"Good question. Allow me, if you will, to explain." Quirrell paced back and forth, giving Harry D. Thomas a view of the room and the disgruntled Malfoy. "What weapons does a vampire have? Superior strength?" The class nodded. "Superior vision?" Again, the class nodded. "Sharp teeth?" There was vigorous nodding from the children. "Of the three, which one can you combat without magic?"

"Anyone?" Quirrell asked. "No?"

Nobody said anything. "Then I shall tell you. You can combat only the fact that a vampire has sharp teeth. Mr. Malfoy, if you would, please smile for us."

Malfoy glared at the teacher but complied, giving a rather nasty smirk at the class. "Please show some teeth, Mr. Malfoy." Grumbling, the privileged first year student did as instructed, baring his teeth.

"Now, Mr. Malfoy, please fire some spells at me. Standard curses, jinxes, and hexes, if you please."

Malfoy complied, trying to hit quirrell with a leg locking curse and several other minor spells. Quirrel didn't move; rather, he simply deflected the spells away from his body with the iron part of the shovel.

Several students muttered, clearly impressed.

"Now that I have demonstrated the suitable defensive nature of this implement, allow me to demonstrate its offensive capabilities." Quirrell hefted his shovel lightly, and without warning swung it as hard as he could across his body, smashing the flat side of it into the unsuspecting Malfoy's teeth. Malfoy dropped to the ground, completely unconscious. The children shrieked and jumped out of their chairs. Silence reigned as Quirrell calmly bent over and picked up the unconscious Malfoy, who's mouth was bleeding profusely.

"Observe, children." Quirrell pulled lightly on Malfoy's chin, taking care not to get any of the blood streaming from his mouth on his fingers. "You cannot combat superior strength or vision." Malfoy's mouth was a wreck; only his molars had escaped being crushed or knocked out. "But, if the vampire has no teeth, he can't bite you. Always carry a shovel."

"Would some one be kind enough to take Mr. Malfoy to the infirmary?"

Nobody moved. Quirrell rested his still bloody shovel on his shoulder. "If no one volunteers, I'll just have to pick someone, then."

Hands immediately shot up.

=-=-=-

The general babble and din of the dining hall died as Quirrell walked into through the front doors. Students regarded him with fear, but some of the older students nodded approvingly as he passed. Up at the teacher's table, Minerva McGonagall looked like she was trying to be upset but failed. Snape was as unpleasant as ever, at least to Harry's memories. Professor Dumbledor simply watched the new professor walk in, his expression betraying nothing.

Quirrell took his now customary kneeling stool at the teachers' table. It prevented him from having to sit on either cheek. The teachers assumed it was hemorrhoids, and Madame Pomfrey had been pestering him for a week to come seek treatment. Food appeared shortly afterwards, and conversation resumed amongst the children after a short while, but many kept casting nervous glances up at the head table.

Dumbledor cleared his throat. "Madam Pompfrey has told me you used a rather unorthodox teaching tool this afternoon."

The rest of the table fell silent, trying to act like there weren't evesdropping but failing miserably.

Quirrell tucked into his meal. "And that would be?"

"You asked for volunteers." Stated Dumbledor.

Quirrell nodded. "Quite right. Children should be active, enthusiastic participants in the process of learning, rather than passive participants."

"I quite agree." Dumbledor took a bite of his kidney pie. "A shame about Mr. Malfoy, though. Injured on the first day of class."

Quirell looked perplexed. "What do you mean, Head Master?"

"Seems he had to go to the nurse because he swallowed too much iron and calcium today, along with some enamel."

Quirrell nodded sagely. "Rather unfortunate."

"May I see the shovel?"

"Why certainly!" Quirrell pulled out his shovel and handed it to the Head Master. The children in the hall grew quiet as they watched the aged Head Master examining the shovel with great care, turning it over in his hands repeatedly, then knocking on the flat side of the iron blade with a knuckle. It rang briefly.

Dumbledore stood up, the object clutched firmly in both hands. "Students, please note. Mr. Quirrell has done us a tremendous service today. He has returned the Shovel of Truth to its rightful place in Hogwarts. The Shovel of Truth was used by the founders to break ground for their new school. Each held one hand on the handle as it was thrust into the earth for the first time, underlyling the strong ties between Knowledge, Bravery, Cunning, and Loyalty necessary for the school to function. For it is written in our ancient histories that one needs not fear the shovel if your heart is pure and your teeth are sound."

With that, Dumbledore handed the shovel back to Quirrell and sat, resuming his lunch.

Around the hall, the words "Shovel of Truth" were whispered back and forth. Nervous glances were cast about, especially at the Slytherin table.

=-=-=-=

*CLANG*

Quirrell looked down, perplexed to find the shovel in his hands once again. He looked around, only to see that the shovel had hit the child named Goyle in the face. Said child was currently rolling on the ground, clutching his nose and sobbing piteously.

"Shovel of Truth, indeed."

Things like this had stated happening regularly after Dumbledor's announcement. Pranks and wayward behavior had been curtailed dramatically, as the shovel always seemed to know. Quirrel didn't even have control over it. His body acted on its own, swinging the implement with such precision and grace that watching student couldn't help but be amazed. Malfoy sat in the back of the class, flinching every time Quirrell walked by. He'd been judged by the shovel on several occasions, and found lacking. He'd taken to keeping a very low profile and his nose clean, or at least changing the bandages on his nose frequently to keep them from becoming soiled.

Argus Filch, the caretaker, had begged repeatedly to use the shovel for his detentions. Quirrell had happily relinquished the item, only to have it return of its own accord and much to the consternation of Mr. Filch.

This was all well and good, but it didn't solve the problems Harry D. Thomas of being the ass cheek of the Defense against the Dark Arts teacher and a multiple schizophrenic. His Voldemort pressured them to pursue the philosopher's stone with all due haste, while his Harry side pursued relieving the pressure of his own philosopher's stones as quickly as possible. The battle and hormones raged inside Quirrell's body.

Finally, around Halloween, Voldemort attempted to lure a troll into the grounds so they could attempt to steal the stone. Unfortunately, he had forgotten to take into account the influence Harry would have on the siren call, and instead of a fully grown mountain troll, they only managed to lure a back alley crack troll onto the grounds. She offered to service them for just one more hit, but before either could accept or reject her offer, the Shovel of Truth struck true, sending Harry D. Thomas to the ground, clutching his nose.

Not even the wielder of this ancient implement was immune to its wrath.


End file.
